


More to Lose

by ladytrollfishes (tangelotime)



Series: The Granite Guts Debacle [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Original Troll Characters, THIS IS A FANTROLL WORKING, Theres also some torture and blood n stuff, also there's a lot of comic in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 02:49:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16673305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangelotime/pseuds/ladytrollfishes
Summary: Daginy, the rebel spy gets in over their head before landing in the clutches of the enemy. Their friends stage a daring, unplanned rescue, but everyone comes out of it at least a little bit worse for wear.





	1. Prologue

                                                                   

 

You sit on the edge of the roof across from the mechanic’s shop, watching the flashing lights of sirens as the police as the raid draws to a close.

You’ve done it. The evidence you gathered was enough to haul everyone involved in front of His Honorable Tyranny. With the legal side of things on the case, it would be difficult for this particular slavery ring to continue its work. Still, you can’t feel like there’s a reason to celebrate.

You watch fixedly as they bring out the culprits in handcuffs. The beanpole of a mechanic that grew the ships, the indigoblood foot soldier who you had had several bad encounters with, the ringleader of the slaving, a whole stream of people forced into APD starjumpers, off to trials that would lead them to their deaths.

You had saved so many people, you tell yourself. You’ve avenged those they’ve harmed in the past, prevented others from being slaved in the future. You know you can’t save everyone.

You watch, leaning over, fist clenched as they bring out the ones you couldn’t save. The victims who you couldn’t release, already grown into the walls of starships you didn’t have the time to cut away. You know that the crime committed was not that free trolls were snatched to put in ships, but that the ships they were put in were not under empire control. The ones you couldn’t save are technically contraband.

You watch, as some of them, biowire still dripping from their wrists and ankles, go quietly to the starjumpers, where they will be taken to some facility where they can be indoctrinated into helming Empire ships. Some of them struggle.

You can’t hear from your perch, but you watch as the cops hit one of the fighters across the face and shoot them in the back of the head, leaving the body in the middle of the road. In the end there are two casualties out of the six you had to leave behind. 

All in all, that was twenty-two more lives in which you had a direct hand in their demise.

…

Eighteen. It would be eighteen. 

You start moving, pulling your aching legs up and away from the cold concrete, giving them a stretch before you start running, jumping from rooftop to rooftop as you follow the sirens through the city. 

Everyone you knew was going to strangle you over this, but you were going to save those last four helmsman if it was the last thing you do. 


	2. Daginy: Get Caught

It’s not the only time you’ve snuck into this particular facility. 

The harbor’s a vast sprawling thing clinging to the side of the coast, a giant shipping facility that saw more than a hundred cargo ships come in and out every day. Underneath the harbor, a twisting labyrinth of tunnels kept the building above dry when the tides came in. 

You’ve got a copy of the map, your lockpicks, a rasp, a first aid kit, some granola bars, your phone and your strife. Hopefully you won’t need the last one. 

This is the plan: 

The central office should have the cargo shipments and destinations. Each bay has a list but there are too many of them to sort through before your target leaves the planet. 

Once you’ve identified the location of the four missing trolls, you’ll plot out the nearest sewer entrance, observe the patrols, and depending on how long you at have, sabotage security. 

Once that’s done, you get to the trolls, pick their locks or file through them if you need, get them to the waterways and get out. 

It’s feasible, really. You just can’t take more risks than are necessary. 

You arrive at the hatch closest to the central office. You change out of your wet boots and clothes and captchalogue them, and climb up into to service hatch, into a small space behind a hidden door. 

You put an ear to the wall, listening for footsteps. Nothing. You close your eyes and take deep breath. You’re doing this. 

The next breath and you’re invisible. One more and you open the panel, peeking outside. Black boots step towards you and a hand reaches for you. It brushes your hair and your breath catches in your throat. 

“There!” someone yells, and you dodge another grab as you duck into the wall, hoisting and twisting yourself so that you can throws yourself down into the waterways. 

You land with a splash and start running. How did they know where you were going to come out? Behind you you can hear splashes as security drops into the waterways and give chase. 

You don’t bother with invisibility. You can’t mask all the ripples when you’re running in water and they’re too close. 

You dash around a corner, closely followed. This is bad. The maze of waterways sprawls open, complicated as a nightmare. It wouldn’t be long before you ended up in a dead end. 

It’s something, really, to see the end before it comes. You know you’re doomed. The knowledge won’t stop you from fighting as hard as you can, but at least you can take precautions. 

You take your palmhusk out and glance at it. No signal, which figures. What it does have is the wealth of your data; your contacts, some of your notes, and location data. You absolutely cannot let anyone get their hands on it. 

The next corner you round, you smash the palmhusk against the wall, cracking it open before you drop it into the water and keep running. There’s a pang- you’ve been through a lot with that palmhusk- but there’s more things to worry about than that. 

Your pursuers are way too close behind. None of you are wasting breath on yelling, but they are taking swings at you. 

You duck under a blow and trip, plunging face first into the water. Before you can even choke on dirty water, an arm grabs yours, yanking you out. You snatch your notes from your coat, the ones you take in your little notebooks, and toss them into the water too. The pages would melt, the ink would run. Weeks of work. 

“Dammit!” your captor snarls as he grabs your arm and twists it up behind you. You grit your teeth as you grunt, bracing yourself against the ground. “Smart though, to get rid of the evidence. Not that it’ll help you.”

Your other pursuer splashes water in your face and snickers when you flinch. 

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s get them back to base.”

They pull you bodily from the water and start marching you back the way you came.


	3. Physeli: Put the Pieces Together

Daginy hasn’t contacted you in a week. 

It’s not that unusual for them to disappear. They do their own thing and they’re good at it. But a week? Even at their most moody, they’ll at least contact you whenever you need an update on what they’re working on.

You check the blogs and sites they often contribute. Nothing. Well, writing was hard and time consuming, and even if Daginy was prolific, it wasn’t as though they could always churn a piece out every week. 

You make contact with a few of the regulars, to see if anyone has seen them. Nobody. Okay. Unusual, but did not mean something was wrong. 

You start investigating. The last project they had been pursuing was an illegal helmsman slaving ring based in a mechanics shop. Scanning the feeds for the past two week, you find a small article about the arrest and dismantlement of the ring. So it was done and Daginy never contacted you? 

You stand and stretch your legs, and grab the grub with the last backup of Daginy’s palmhusk data before settling back in front of your husktop. It’s not difficult to trace the last known location of their palmhusk. The signal stopped near the coastline, next to the harbor, one week prior. 

You frown, and check the date of the slaving ring’s dismantlement. They disappeared afterwards, but not by long- only a day. The article is only a short blurb. Daginy would have covered it in more detail. You sneak yourself into the Alternian Police Department’s digital database. 

18 people arrested, 4 confiscated helmsmen. The helmsmen were due to be shipped from the Granite Guts Space Port in the city. The same harbor that Daginy disappeared from. 

You curse their stupid grey ass out to the two moons and back then call Alnica.

That’s the port where the Greyhound got caught earlier in the sweep. Your information on their security is out of date because there was no way they hadn’t patched any existing security holes.

More importantly, there’s no record of an arrest in the books, no unknown child in any of the APD jail cells or in an interrogarroter’s chair. What you do know is that the man who runs the harbor has a hatchmate and that hatchmate is Interrogarroter Lyrian Aubade. You know they both will want to know how a kid got into their things. 

You have no doubt that Aubade would want that information from them. You have no doubt Daginy destroyed their palmhusk and any subsequent notes, because otherwise half your network would already be dead. 

Daginy- if they weren’t already dead- was still in there.


	4. Lyrian: Sew

 

 

Sew, a needle pulling thread. 

You hum, gently, weaving soothing calm into your voice as you embroider. You’ve found it’s calming, really, placing one tiny stitch after another, perfectly placed. You barely even have to think about it. This wriggler, though, is another matter entirely.

You sit across from them in an empty room with a table and two chairs. It serves well enough for your purposes you suppose, but you’re just used to so much  _more._

It is, however, a trade off in the end. Bringing your subjects into your office means putting them on the books. As much as it rankles you, you cannot fault your brother for insisting this particular interrogation be kept off them. In the end, it’s much harder for people to escape when no one knows where they are. 

As it was, you’ve made the appropriate arrangements to free you from your usual duties for awhile, and had the basic tools of your trade brought with you. 

The wriggler sitting across from you is quiet. You haven’t heard them speak a word, nor have they struggled. You know better than to accept this as submission. Their melody still thrums with drumming determination, rhythmic resignation and pulses of anger, very nearly drowning out the shrill of fear. 

Unlike most of your subjects, you have no personal information on them. You know their approximate age, their caste. You know they have been wearing hemoanon greys and that they are quite likely involved with rebels. The wriggler has no name for you to call them, no one to contact or threaten, seeing how they managed to destroy every piece of evidence before they were captured. They have no fingerprints to run, even- some fire had taken them and replaced them with scars. 

You can guess many things about them of course. Someone who has gone the lengths they must have to remove any trace of their identity was not a wriggler playing a game. They’ve accumulated many scars, some of them most definitely needing extra medical attention. 

This was a child doing dangerous things, with dangerous friends who helped them with it. Not enough, however. They had been alone in the waterways, unaware of the motion sensors that had been installed there after the most recent break in and attempted theft. 

The wriggler obviously had some measure of success, to stay alive for this long. It was an easy mistake, the product of a rushed plan. Something happened that kept them from relying on their support network. Was it an argument? Pride? The wriggler, despite having a certain amount of experience, was after all, still a wriggler. 

You continue stitching, humming, wearing away the defensive scream of fear. All you’ve been doing for the past twenty minutes is sewing and humming. The child has been clinging to that fear for an unusually long time, especially for someone so young, and so low on the hemospectrum. You suspect that they have gotten used to being afraid. 

The fear you hear starts to take on a different tinge. Instead of animal defensiveness, it turns anxious. You smile down at your completed sampler and turn it around so they can see the words on it. 

“The measure of love is love without measure,” you read. “It’s a beautiful sentiment, isn’t it?” 

You can see the wariness in their eyes. Perhaps it was simply the paint, but you would not be surprised if the wriggler knows who you are. You let the corners of your eyes crinkle as you smile sadly down at them. 

“You’re not in trouble, dear,” you say. “It’s obvious you’ve been some hard times. I imagine there were some extreme circumstances that lead you to the waterways below the harbor.” 

The wriggler doesn’t even blink, fixing you with an unconvinced stare, even as their melody fluctuates to cacaphony. Suspicion, anxiety, a prick of hope even, crescendo.

“You’re protecting something,” you continue. “That much is clear to me. It’s also evident that you’re resourceful, talented, and very resilient. You are also much too young for this. Something must have forced you to this life.”

The wriggler doesn’t react, but you can hear anticipation rising. No intention on speaking though. 

“This meeting isn’t on the books,” you say. “There is no crime charged here. What I see here isn’t a budding criminal but a talented but troubled young troll who, with a little help, could rise to the top very quickly.”

You can hear yourself fan the spark of hope, and almost immediately anger swallows it back up. 

“No,” they say. It’s the first word you’ve heard them speak, their voice hoarse with disuse. “You’re full of shit.” 

You smile thinly. There. Progress. Now you could really begin.


	5. Pesterlog between Herlyn and Alnica

 

 

– prodigalMagnetism [PM] began pestering breakneckBlazer [BB] at 23:57 –

[11:58] PM: Ɔ| Herlyn, there’s bad news. |C

[11:58] PM: Ɔ| I kn( ҉ )w y( ҉ )u’re g( ҉ )ing t( ҉ ) take this badly. |C

[11:58] BB: /yoU’Re-Not-dyiNg-aRe-yoU?/

[11:59] PM: Ɔ| What? N( ҉ ), it’s n( ҉ )t me. |C

[11:59] BB: /what-is-it-theN?/

[11:59] BB: /it’s-Not-dagiNy-is-it/

[11:59] PM: Ɔ| It is. They’ve been caught. |C

[12:00] BB: /like-caUght-caUght/

[12:00] PM: Ɔ| Yes. Preliminary investigati( ҉ )ns place them at the harb( ҉ )r in the city. N( ҉ ) f( ҉ )rmal arrests made. |C

[12:00] BB: /the-fUck?/

[12:00] BB: /what-the-heck-weRe-they-eveN-doiNg-theRe?/

[12:02] PM: Ɔ| G( ҉ )ing full ramb( ҉ ) apparently. They’ve been g( ҉ )ne f( ҉ )r a week and n( ҉ ) ( ҉ )n n( ҉ )ticed because they didn’t tell any( ҉ )ne where they were g( ҉ )ing. |C

[12:02] PM: Ɔ| They’ve pr( ҉ )tected us, as far as we can tell. N( ҉ ) ( ҉ )ne has been hurt ( ҉ )r captured s( ҉ ) either Daginy is dead ( ҉ )r still in interr( ҉ )gati( ҉ )n. |C

[12:03] BB: /fUck!!/

[12:03] BB: /im-goiNg-iN-aNd-gettiNg-them-aNd-theN-im-goiNg-to-straNgle-them-myself-goddammit/

[12:03] BB: /what-caN-yoU-give-me/

[12:04] PM: Ɔ| Herlyn, I can’t. |C

[12:04] BB: /what-do-yoU-meaN-yoU-caN’t?/

[12:04] BB: /weRe-the-idiots-that-let-them-RUN-aRoUNd-oN-theiR-owN-like-that-iN-the-fiRst-place/

[12:04] BB: /alNica-this-is-dagiNy-we’Re-talkiNg-aBoUt-heRe/

[12:05] PM: Ɔ| I’m n( ҉ )t sending y( ҉ )u in there f( ҉ )r a dead b( ҉ )dy. |C

[12:08] PM: Ɔ| All that w( ҉ )uld d( ҉ ) w( ҉ )uld alert the auth( ҉ )rities t( ҉ ) ( ҉ )ur existence and clue them int( ҉ ) h( ҉ )w imp( ҉ )rtant Daginy was t( ҉ ) us- t( ҉ ) this ( ҉ )rganizati( ҉ )n. It’s n( ҉ )t a risk I’m g( ҉ )ing t( ҉ ) take. They’d think the same. |C

[12:08] BB: /seRioUsly??/

[12:08] BB: /weve-always-BeeN-so-fUckiNg-woRRied-aBoUt-them-aNd-yoU-waNNa-ditch-them-Now?/

[12:08] BB: /whos-the-faiR-weatheR-fRieNd-Now???/

[12:10] PM: Ɔ| We have the magpie n( ҉ )w. Y( ҉ )u kn( ҉ )w what they’re like. Y( ҉ )u think they w( ҉ )uld appreciate risking everything they spent the past tw( ҉ ) sweeps ( ҉ )n ( ҉ )n the chance that they’re still alive? |C

[12:10] BB: /okay-yoU-kNow-what-fUck-that/

[12:11] BB: /i-kNow-yoU-feel-like-this-is-yoUR-faUlt-aNd-yoU-waNNa-RescUe-dagiNy-as-mUch-as-i-do/

[12:12] PM: Ɔ| Of c( ҉ )urse I d( ҉ ). But I can’t with( ҉ )ut risking everything. |C

[12:12] BB: /theN-it-woNt-Be-a-magpie-thiNg-itll-jUst-Be-fRieNds-saviNg-each-otheRs-asses-thiNg/

[12:12] PM: Ɔ| They’re deep in the middle ( ҉ ) f enemy territ( ҉ )ry. Any chance of success is t( ҉ )( ҉ ) slim t( ҉ ) c( ҉ )unt on. If you tried, y( ҉ )u w( ҉ )uld get caught and then where would we be?  |C

[12:14] PM: Ɔ| Besides that, Herlyn, I can’t.. I just can’t deal with that. |C

[12:15] BB: /im-Not-goiNg-iN-aloNe-ill-get-some-extRacURRicUlaR-fRieNds-to-help/

[12:16] BB: /im-Not-a-complete-idiot/

[12:16] PM: Ɔ| Lyn… please…|C 

[12:16] BB: /alNica/

[12:16] BB: /im-goiNg-iN-whetheR-yoU-like-it-oR-Not/

[12:16] PM: Ɔ| Then pr( ҉ )mise me y( ҉ )u’ll stay alive. |C

[12:17] BB: /well-thats-a-giveN-Now-isNt-it/

[12:18] PM: Ɔ| Y( ҉ )u’re an idi( ҉ )t, Herlyn Frigus. |C

[12:18] BB: /i-kNow-thats-how-yoU-like-me/

[12:18] BB: /<3/

[12:21] PM: Ɔ| At least do things in a somewhat sane manner. Take t( ҉ )day t( ҉ ) plan. Physeli can fill y( ҉ )u in all the details. Rushing in ( ҉ )n the j( ҉ )b isn’t g( ҉ )ing t( ҉ ) help any( ҉ )ne. |C

[12:22] BB: /theyRe-a-toUgh-cookie-thats-foR-sURe/

[12:22] BB: /ill-Bet-yoU-tweNty-caegaRs-theyRe-alive-aNd-kickiNg-wheN-we-get-theRe/

[12:22] PM: Ɔ| Heh. I’m n( ҉ )t betting ( ҉ )n that. |C

[12:22] PM: Ɔ| G( ҉ ) already. |C

[12:23] BB: /seNds-yoU-a-smooch-oN-the-way-oUt/

[12:23] BB: /<3/

[12:23] PM: Ɔ| <3 |C

– breakneckBlazer [BB] ceased pestering prodigalMagnetism [PM] at 00:23 –


	6. Ironbelly

Your name is Ironbelly. 

You had a different name once. You neither remember it, nor do you care to. 

When you were young, you were put into a new ship, the Galaxywave, a flanker, harasser battleship that required precision, power, flexibility; all things that you, the helmsman provided beyond expectation.

You climbed the ranks; those who piloted you knew it was an honor. You flew, you fought, you won with the best of them. You were a precision tool, to be wielded with devastating efficacy. 

Time swept past you, however, putting new ships with technological advances, with younger, fresher helms. For all your renown, you never did attract the Empress’s legendary touch the same way her own helm did. 

You started breaking down. The sweeps stole your ability to abuse your pilot body for results. They stole the strength of your pan, your viability on the front lines of the fleet. They have one last thing to take. 

You knew they were going to get rid of you when they supplemented you with a last ditch gasoline engine. You had never been more furious your entire life; except maybe the they gave you a second battery, a defunct maroon who had holes in his pan so wide his own thoughts spilled through them like so much wasted milk. 

You know what the plan is; when you lose viability, he will take your place and if he’s not able, then Ironbelly will be recycled, your legacy melted ignominiously into the slag heap. 

Worst of all is the possibility that he is able. He will be the new Ironbelly taking your name and identity, when you, who was the ship lived and fought through wars through losses through victories through peace, shitty captains and good ones, succeeding despite everything, everything! 

Your pilot body weakens. It draws you back into it like a black hole, forcing you to inhabit your shallow breaths, your fading eyesight, the ache of shoulders that spent so much time in one position. The machines monitoring your vitals start beeping alarmingly.

Your sweeps have come for you. 

You run a dry tongue across your teeth, moving your clumsy pilot mouth for perhaps the last time. 

“I-” 

Your aspiration sponges tickle with disuse as you take a shaky breath. The battery flickers awake at the edge of your consciousness, and you point your fury at him. 

“-AM IRONBELLY!”

There is a thunderclap. Then there is nothing.


	7. Ferra: Answer Herlyn

 

You’re fixing your sink when the call comes in. 

It’s just a loose bolt but it’s all the way in the damn back so you have to crawl all the way under the counter so you can reach. Your palmhusk buzzes but you ignore it as you wrestle with the awkward angle. You’ll be damned if you’ll let this bolt go before it’s screwed in nice and tight goddamnit. 

 Your husk stops ringing before you’re done but whoever it is on the other line isn’t. There’s a slight pause just before it starts ringing again. Annoyed, you wriggle your husk out from your pocket and accept the call. 

 "You’re on speaker,“ you say, ironing out most the irritation out of your voice and cranking the bolt a little tighter. "Better be important." 

 "Ferra,” Herlyn says. She sounds out of breath. “You alone?” There’s something wrong, you can tell. The irritation drains away as you give the bolt a final crank and wriggle your way out from under the sink. 

 "Yeah just fixing a pipe,“ you say. "What’s up?” “Daginy’s caught,” she replies without hesitation. “I’m going in to get them. Could use your help." 

 Your breath stoppers in your throat like a cork in a bottle. This was stupid similar, stupidly stupidly similar, and you knew all along it would turn out this way didn’t you? That’s why you let it be when Daginy stopped talking to you. You knew this was going to happen eventually. 

 "Ferra?” Herlyn says again. “This is do or die here. I know you got issues with this but I need an answer." 

 Your mouth feels dry. "I can’t,” you say. “You can’t either, Lyn, I don’t care how good you think you are. Dag knew what they were getting into when they started this." 

"Which of course means I should just let them die, sure,” she replies sarcastically. 

“I’ll take that as a no then.” She hangs up. You drop the wrench, that you now realize you had been clutching hard enough to make marks in your palm, and call her back. She picks up on the first ring. 

“What?” Now she’s the one who sounds irritated. 

 "Do you have a death wish?“ you snap immediately. "Which I always ask but fuck it, I’m starting to think you’re deluded as well. You’re going to die, Lyn.”

 "Consider me deluded,“ Herlyn replies. "I’m not Saiyal, I’m not about to kick it. And even if I was I’m not about to lie about it." 

 "Fuck off, Lyn,” you reply, bristling. “That was uncalled for." 

 "You called me back,” she says. “What’d you expect?”

“Ass,” you say. She hangs up again and this time you don’t call back. Instead you stare at your palmhusk with shaking hands. You’ve known Herlyn for a long ass time- she was blunt as a brick and hit as hard as one and if she decided on something she was going to go through with it. 

 Handmaid’s mercy, you were going to lose two of your friends at once.


	8. Herlyn: Get Ready

 

 

You take the night to make your preparations. It’s woefully short of the meticulous planning that Alnica and Daginy usually do when they plan the occasional excursion, but you think it’ll do.

No one you asked wants to come with you, which doesn’t surprise you, but it is disappointing. No matter how good you are, there were only so many people you can take down. You can’t con or climb or steal like Daginy and Ferra can but you are really good at hitting shit and setting things on fire, and by all means you’re going to use that.

You are now as prepared as you ever were going to be.

You’ve got the plans for the harbor and marked out the few rooms you think they’d be most likely to hold someone.

You cram as many protein bars into the pockets of your janitor uniform as you can and finish filling up the jugs of soap with rubbing alcohol.

You stretch, taking a deep breath. With the plan you got you give yourself maybe 30-40% chance of making it out alive, 10% for you getting Daginy out of it too.

They’re shit odds but you’re not afraid. You stretch and flex your hands and crack your neck and consider yourself. No, you may be wound up tighter than a snake coiled to spring but dangling on that edge isn’t at all unfamiliar to you. This is a starting line.

You captchalogue your things and get moving.


	9. Harmon: Worry About Your Signmate

 

This interrogation business surely didn’t take so long. You don’t make a habit of doubting your signmate, but keeping a criminal on your premises was making you jumpy. It was your idea yes, but you also did not believe that it would take Lyrian more than a week to break them.

Even now, she had little more than a name,

From what you’ve heard from Lyrian, however, was that she was making progress, however slow extricating that information out of the wriggler was proving. She’s also assured you that this is perfectly normal and her most stubborn subjects can last weeks.

Still this whole thing has set you on edge. You wouldn’t call yourself nervous, but Lyrian has already excused you from the interrogation room several times already but you always find yourself drifting back whenever you get a break.

There’s been a bitter twang in the air in this area since the child took up residence in your harbor. You wrinkle your nose as you approach. You don’t know how Lyrian deals with the permanent sound of misery but you suppose everyone had different tastes.

It’s not even as though those kinds of sounds didn’t frequent your own establishment. The janitor who was very intently mopping the floor sounded like a jangled bag of nerves, a close harmony of determination, fear, and anxiety. Perhaps she had been chewed out by a supervisor for letting a stain slide.

“Chin up, dear,” you say as you pass. “This surely isn’t the worst the world has to offer you.”

To your surprise, the janitor jerks back with a crash of panic. You jump too- you’re pretty sure she scared you as badly as you did her.

The janitor leans on her mop and tilts her cap back, smiling an awkward smile. Uncertain tension strums ever the louder in her melody, giving you pause.

“Oh uh, sorry about that,” she says. “Thanks? But you know I gotta-” she gestures to the floor. You glance down, your eyes following her motion. “-finish up boss man so if you could move along…”

There are no soap bubbles in her bucket. You wouldn’t exactly consider yourself an expert in the subject either but now that you’ve been standing here, the smell of what you thought was some disinfectant, smells more like rubbing alcohol.

“Wait,” you say, and squint at the janitor.

The very audible tension suddenly resolves to resignation.

“Aw hell,” she says. Then, without a moment’s notice, she slams her knuckles into your throat.

You stumble back, pain blossoming outwards and eating your breath.

You try to regain your balance, reaching for your strife as the janitor, who you think is probably not a janitor, materializes a blade on her arm. She is going to kill you, you can hear it in her harmony.

 _Survive_.

It’s an imperative, above all else.

_Survive._

You pull from your strife deck but you’re not fast enough. The arc of your bolos isn’t enough to outspeed the sliver of steel that greets your forehead. You’re dead before you can really begin to feel afraid.

—-

You are now Lyrian and something is wrong.

It’s as though the drummer ceased to play before his part is over, the steady rhythm to which the music moves disappearing into nothingness.

An urgent need pulls at you to investigate- but your subject emanates anxiety clutching you closer.

“Hush dear,” you say, picking them up. Interrupting the interrogation to investigate a bad feeling would be ridiculous, but you can’t quite shake it off

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TIME FOR COMICS. 50 PAGES OF COMICS.

 

 

(THATS A STAPLE GUN FERRA IS STAPLING THE DOOR SHUT)

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Mirroring this from my tumblr for archival purposes, direct from Tumblr Drabble format so. Prepare for short chapters and pictures. And then one chapter with a fifty page comic


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